


SKYDUST II

by hellhoundsprey



Series: skydust!verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Amputation, Bottom Sam Winchester, Castration, Daddy Kink, Depression, Hints of Wincest, Injury Recovery, Jealousy, M/M, Penectomy, Physical Disability, Polyamorous Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rebel Castiel, Rebel Dean Winchester, Recreational Drug Use, Rehabilitation, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Tortured Dean Winchester, Trauma, Witch Sam Winchester, hints of destiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: In a galaxy far far away, a captain and his crew fight for justice.
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Series: skydust!verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633717
Comments: 25
Kudos: 38





	SKYDUST II

**Author's Note:**

> This one includes hints of destiel and wincest, so I tagged accordingly. Explicit romance and smut is strictly sastiel though.

Cas is on his feet—prior to hearing the distant hiss of the in-beaming ship, even prior to the nearby mumble of, “Wow, weird,” from in front of the radar—and he runs, runs, runs.

Out the door, past Jo’s distracted-first and confused-later eyes, and as he sprints across the wide-open of the plaza, there appears a ship, no—the opening _door_ of a ship—and arms toss out a body and the body thuds into the dirt, merciless, lifeless.

Cas screams, “DEAN!” and arrives too late to soften his fall and later he will ask himself why he didn’t fucking shoot, why he was so weak and scared that all he could do was run and _not shoot_ and not look back.

There’s no note, no nothing, just his friend, his second in command, limp and pale in his arms and Cas gathers him up, closer, and Dean’s lashes flutter and his lips move but there’s nothing, and Cas shakes him and his brain begins to scream.

“HELP!”

Dean is so so pale and he reeks of fire, of blood and burnt flesh and his own filth, of decay and death and Cas hauls him into his arms, and Dean’s head droops up and over.

“GET DOC! I NEED HELP!”

“Is that—”

“DEAN!”

“Oh my god, it’s DEAN!”

“He’s back?!”

“Get Doc! WHERE’S DOC?!”

“HELP, QUICK!”

“Dean?! Oh my god! Oh god, PLEASE, GOD!”

Dean’s now unconscious body hits the table and Donna is the first and only one present enough to start first aid, pumps her hands into Dean’s chest. The sheer force of her efforts tears the crew back to life, and Ellen cries out, “Dear lord,” and Cas is frozen in place.

His muscles jerk, pull him into every direction there is—his throat needs to scream but it can’t, and his legs cramp with how bad they have to bolt, take him away from the sight, towards Doc, help, why isn’t she—

“I’m here,” states Doc, and Cas hears her pushing through everyone until she’s at the table.

She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t say anything.

And maybe that’s worse.

Doc begins her work in focused silence while Donna keeps pumping Dean’s heart for him.

Feels like forever until Doc explains, “He’s in shock,” and Cas barely-nods because that’s something he knows, something you can come out of, something everyone here has survived so far.

One of Doc’s arms flip out a pair of scissors and she cuts away the grimy shirt, Dean’s pants—

Terrified screams.

Some flee the room; the noise and rank of vomit fills the too-thick-already air. Next to Cas, Charlie breaks down to her knees as she sobs hysterically, tries holding on to Cas’ arm but he can’t feel it, or anything at all.

Cas remains standing, watching.

At some point, Doc states, “He’s breathing. You can stop now. I got him,” so Donna retreats, not without hesitation, and comes to a stand next to Cas, just as lost as him, drained in sweat.

They stay, together. Alone.

Time passes. Dean’s eyes don’t open.

Tubes and needles enter his veins. Dean’s body doesn’t stir.

Doc forces into Cas’ field of vision. In front of Dean.

She tells him, “He will live,” and Cas nods, and his skull vibrates and might be about to explode.

“Castiel,” she says, and he screams, “WHAT?!” and his voice _hurts_ in his throat, shreds him like shards of glass and acid, and she calmly tells him, “You need to sit down.”

He understands the words; yes, he does.

But he doesn’t move. Cannot. How could he?

He realizes his teeth are clattering. That his muscles shake and that he’s suddenly, violently crying.

“This—this is my fault. It’s all…all my—”

Doc gently puts one of her hands on Cas’ shoulder. “This is not the time, Castiel. Please, rest now.”

She guides him back to the others, and when he slips and almost-falls to the floor, she grabs him and half-carries him until she can slip him onto one of the chairs. Countless arms welcome him and he sinks into someone’s chest, and his eyes drift shut, but no release comes.

Voiceless, faceless sobs. Despair and mourning, and the bitter-sweet overtone of ‘at least he’s alive’.

He has to call Sam.

~

Cas enters the room to the sight of Sam snatching the bottle of water from his brother, hears him scolding, “Stop! You’re not supposed to do that!” and for a moment, things are back to normal, to how they were.

Sam’s back is turned and Dean finds Cas’ eyes, and there hasn’t been a day Dean didn’t look disheveled ever since he woke up. Always a little off, delayed. Looks younger with his face this blank, and Cas cannot _not_ smile back when those corners of that mouth barely-lift, just for him.

Dean’s sitting upright with his bandaged arms on top of the blanket.

Cas puts one hand on each Winchester’s shoulder, rubs Dean’s a little more. “You know what Doc said.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean lifts his forearms, almost-knocks them into Cas. “But I can still use ’em, so shouldn’t I?”

“Your skin must heal completely, first,” explains Cas, gently, for what feels like the hundredth time. He pulls a nearby chair close to take a seat next to Sam. “If there is too much pressure, the wounds will reopen. It will delay the progress further.”

“I’m not using the _stumps_ ,” snaps Dean, and waves his arms again in emphasis. “It’s fine!”

Cas sighs, “Dean,” and Sam adds, “Like it would kill you to accept some goddamn help, for fuck’s sake.”

Sam unscrews the bottle, pours his brother a glass and holds it to his mouth.

Dean’s eyes narrow. His lips are pressed closed.

Cas watches that hand bumping forward with force, against the ungiving.

Cas pleads, quietly, “Dean,” but Dean turns his head sideways, away.

Sam’s arm retreats. He cradles the glass in both hands. His shoulders droop, barely visible, and Cas’ hand returns to rub over that back.

Sam reminds, flatly, “Doc will put you back on the IV if you keep being a pain in the ass like that, y’know,” and with his face still out of their sight, Dean barks, “Fine.”

Sam hasn’t left his brother’s bedside except for the occasional bathroom break—he eats here, sleeps here. More than once, either Doc or Cas walked in on them curled together under the blanket. In contrast to Doc, Cas hasn’t managed to argue them out of it. Stubbornness truly runs in the family.

Cas squeezes his lover’s frail hand. The horror eats Sam alive, still.

Dean hasn’t talked about what happened yet. There’s little hope he ever will, if you ask those who know him.

Doc says it’s too early for that, anyway; give him _time_. Once he gets his prosthesis’, he will regain confidence; he will be able to walk again, do everything the way he used to.

The bruises have begun to fade. The deeper wounds begin to scab and scar. The countless needle spots in his neck, his arms—they are gone at this point, covered by newer, friendlier ones.

(Adrenaline, Doc assumes—they would bring him back when he would faint, over and over. Dean spilled that much because Doc went as far as threatening him, because Doc _needed to know_ to help him.)

Cas wishes he could do—anything.

Can’t even sit here as much as he wants to (which is _all the time_ ), just be with Sam and Dean, give them all of himself. His crew still needs him, their purpose, the people. The universe doesn’t stop in its track just for you to nurse your or your loved ones’ wounds.

Sam promises, “Be right back,” and slips out the door, out of their hearing range, from Cas’ hands.

There’s a few considering moments before Cas whispers, “We found them.”

Dean snorts, still facing away. “Yeah. ’Cause I told you who did it.”

“We’re heading out tonight. Benny, Charlie, Bobby, Eileen and I.”

“Revenge,” Dean muses, flatly. “Cute.”

“We were thinking Feds, actually.”

Dean turns to peek at him for that. A small win. Cas plays it cool.

“Figured they’d be interested in getting their hands on those bastards.”

They share their gaze for the slow blink of Dean’s tired, dull eyes. Longer, through Dean’s empty, “There’s no difference,” through the weak shrug. “We offed their buds, they taught us a lesson, they die.”

Cas forces his smile to stay. “They’re not gonna go easy on them. We have evidence of what they—”

“Look, Cas.”

Cas closes his mouth.

“You know I appreciate it. I really do. But please, for the love of god, stop talking.”

Cas nods, sober, “Alright.” He cannot recall when he started wringing his hands.

The bland and painful truth is that, “Even if they die, that’s not gonna change anything,” and Cas, while he logically knows this, hurts with it.

~

Everything in Cas is swimming, heated, knife-sharp. Somewhere around his tongue, Sam whisper-urges, “Quiet, quiet,” but Cas still grunts, unnecessary, as he finally yanks his pants open successfully.

Feels Sam’s spider-thin arm wringing around his neck for support, one hand on the sink Cas lifts him onto, while Cas yanks those too-little shorts off him.

It’s a struggle to keep licking into each other’s mouth through all of it, but they manage.

It’s been way too fucking long.

They labor-pant into each other, fucking lost already and Cas is just now lining them up, shoves into that impossible, tight heat of that body, and they both gasp, helplessly.

Sam’s naked feet scramble in the air.

Cas knocks a bottle off the sink and it shatters on the floor, heartbreakingly loud, but they don’t stop, cannot.

Cas bottoms out within seconds, begins pumping his hips too rough too fast, and Sam meets him on every downstroke, utterly perfect.

“Fuck,” slurs Cas, pink-drunk, high out of his mind, “angel, angel, _fuck_ …”

Sam wrenches his whole beautiful hand over his mouth to shut him the fuck up, lets Cas ream him with his own lips sealed tight, his pretty little face all scarlet and tinted dark.

He’s tight again like that first time and Cas creams him up deep, too soon.

The orgasm has his knees buckling, his body collapsing. He shakes, out of control, and Sam lets out a baby-gasp at Cas’ wounded sob, the harsh, dry grip of that hand on his weeping cock.

Sam follows him over the edge, plentiful. Ripples like a goddamn vice around Cas’ cock, still wedged as deep as possible, milks the last of him dry—dutifully mute but for a shocked, quiet sigh.

Sam holds him. Arms thrown around his sweaty back, buried in that nothing-chest.

Castiel shakes with his silent tears. Wants to scream, to kick, to crumble down and cry and never get up again.

They clean up as far as that’s a thing without them changing their clothes, step out of the bathroom and into the corridor. Sam makes a beeline for the bedroom, where Dean awaits him, wide awake.

Cas avoids Dean’s eyes.

~

Three pairs of eyes are glued to where once was an ankle. Where now are Doc’s hands, and the uneven flesh of Dean Winchester’s left leg.

Cas is the only soul Dean tolerates for the exams. Sam is ‘annoying’. Cas is still ‘cap’n’.

Doc lifts the other side to her eyes. Turns it, inspects, before she puts it back down. “These are looking good,” she praises. “We can add your feet any day now.”

Dean looks indifferent under Cas’ knowing eyes.

“Have you been doing the exercises like I told you?”

“He has.”

“Dean,” Doc emphasizes with a warning glare towards Cas, “do you feel ready for surgery? It will take about eight hours, give or take. You will be fully sedated. Once you wake, you will be able to walk. There won’t be any pain.”

To Cas’ utter relief, Dean shrugs.

“Yeah, sure.”

She says, “Excellent,” and, after a respectful pause, “What about your hands?”

A hesitation.

“If you have any questions, let me answer them for you.”

“You said they’d feel like before,” Cas hears, quietly, shyly.

“Yes.”

“Like they’re my own. My flesh and bone.”

“It is a highly common procedure. You can talk to Jody, ask her how it was for her, how it feels.”

Dean’s eyes are downcast at the abrupt ends of his arms.

Cas encourages, “If you need more time, that’s alright. Just let us know.”

Eventually, with something like defeat, Dean states, “Yeah, sure. Do ’em. I don’t care. Feet, hands, all of them.”

“All at once?”

“’S what I just said, didn’t I?”

Doc throws Cas a ‘welp’-screaming look before she turns her attention back on Dean. “And what about—”

“No.”

She scoffs in disbelief. “Just ‘no’?”

“Cas,” Dean says without looking at him, “leave.”

“Of course.”

Cas lifts from his seat, leaves the room. Stands by the door, eyes to the floor. Listens, but there ain’t much but muffled murmurs. Dean’s too-deep voice, the robotic buzzing of Doc’s.

Doc narrows her chrome eyes at Cas as she exits the room as well, not much later. Cas stopped apologizing for his insufficient manners many, many years ago.

“He’s ready,” she summarizes. “I’ll operate on him tomorrow.”

It’s a last night. One that crawls underneath your skin, and you don’t want it to be over as much as you can’t wait for it to end. The unknown lurks, inexorable.

They lay on Dean’s chest, Sam and him, nestled in one armpit each. Somewhere between asleep and awake. The weeks have not been soft on them and there’s that wild, distant roar of euphoria, of things getting better, finally, _finally_.

Sam’s fingers brush-dance endless patterns on his brother’s chest. That fully broken-in voice whispers chants and spells and bits of songs. Lullabies and odes. Fairytales and heroes.

Cas never wants to leave this bed. Doesn’t know how anyone will separate the three of them in the morning. How his heart will not break, how he is supposed to look Sam in the eye and smile and say, ‘Now, finally, luck is on our side.’

Dean’s stomach rises and falls with his breath, right underneath Cas’ worn-out palm. His heart beats steady and slow. Cas can hear it. Cas’ eyes are closed.

He likes to think that Dean is asleep right now. That he finds rest, that he is glad. That things will move forward now, into the right direction, and that Dean is excited for this new, huge step.

A beautiful, beautiful thought.

~

If you don’t know him—didn’t know him from before—you wouldn’t believe the stories.

That once, there was a boy, too soft and powerful for his own good. Who would die for you and not think twice. Who would stare fear in the eye and smirk, say, “That’s all you got?” and break your heart if you looked at him for too long.

Dean Winchester was a hero, once.

Would have been one.

That flame, that powerful, bright flame—you see him now, and all you find is a weak smolder. A reminder that yes: once, I was alive.

Doc assured (no, _vowed_ ) that no, Castiel, I did _not_ touch his brain, he’s still the same.

“Then how—why—”

“I believe we call it ‘depression’, captain,” snarls Doc, and she never appeared more human to Cas ever before, or after.

Ever since he got the artificial limbs and after a short-lived improvement which Cas blames entirely on Dean’s violent sympathy for everyone around himself, Dean’s state has deteriorated. He’s back to lying in bed, motionless. His new hands—he insisted on them being raw metal, no life-like skin to fool the eye—lie on top of the blankets, palms facing up, unused. Dean stares at them for hours on end. Conversations are growing rare. He won’t allow anyone to visit him. There’s only Cas and Sam, and Doc, if she insists.

Cas always lingers nearby. If only to catch Dean sighing, moving, anything; thinking nobody can see him, guard down. But those moments don’t come.

“Dean, please,” he hears, tired, exhausted, leaning against the door. Doc tries her best. She says it’s a miracle nothing quite like this has ever happened to any of them before. Until now, Cas had to bury friends and family, yes, of course, but never a crewmate. “Please: _talk_. We want to help you. You’re not alone.”

Deafening silence. Cas buries his face in his hands.

“It’s okay to hurt. And it’s okay that you need time. But don’t give up, alright? We’re here. All of us.”

Dean’s voice barely raises. Cas’ heart thuds at the mere sound of it.

“Can you cut it out?”

Doc speaks quietly, gently. “Cut out what, dear?”

“It’s in my brain. All the bullshit, right? The memories.”

A silence.

“They took yours out, put it in that machine you’re wearing, right? So, we can do it the other way around, maybe.”

“I…get what you’re aiming at, but I don’t think…”

“Look, Doc—you know more about that shit than I do. Than any of us. Can you help me or not?”

Hesitation. Then, “Dean, you won’t be _you_ anymore if we—” and Dean interjects, “Perfect. So, when can we do it?”

A stunned pause. Gravely, then, “I will not operate on your brain, Dean Winchester.”

“Fine. Then I’ll find someone who will.”

“You will not.” Doc’s voice raises with the command, and so does Cas. Is pressed up against the door now, hands and face. “I will not allow it. You have no idea what you are talking about.”

Dean bellows, “You say you wanna help?! So, help, or get the fuck OUT!”

“Dean Winchester, you are INSANE!”

“OF COURSE I AM! IT NEVER STOPS!”

Cas hears them panting. His ears ring.

He can imagine what Dean looks like. Out of his mind with fear, torn between not wanting to show that and it overpowering him, so he’d feel even more helpless, not-himself.

Is sweating, probably. He hasn’t exerted himself like that in weeks.

Hears, weaker, “It never stops,” and Cas wonders—suddenly, fearfully—if Dean might be crying.

“I still feel it. Everything, and—even if they’re gone, I still _feel_ it, Doc—it never stops.”

Dean’s voice shakes with his tears, his spiraling breath, and Cas’ heart is gonna beat out of his chest, and he is gonna break down this goddamn door.

But what could he say? Do? What does he have to offer for consolation, for hope?

“Every second, I _feel_ —and I _know_ they’re gone, I KNOW, but it’s like they’re, they’re still _attached_ to me, and, the _pain_ —these aren’t mine, these aren’t—”

“Dean, stop— _stop_!”

Cas barges into the room to the sight of Doc and Dean wrestling on the bed, Dean’s mecha fingers curled and tearing, shredding into themselves, and he barks, “Dean, STOP,” and Dean points his wild-animal eyes at him, nothing like anything Cas ever saw on him, ever.

They contain him with joined forces. Despite the tears streaking his flaky skin (and they flow silently, casually, like they were always there), Dean roars, bucks with all the might so negligently forgotten and yet undeniably _his_.

The roar turns into a scream, bone-marrow-deep and Doc yells something about calming down, and Cas not-blinks through the tears filling his eyes.

Once Dean’s lungs run out of air, he collapses. Nearly faints he looks so pale, so _dead_ , and his head lolls to the side as his chest ripples with weak, empty sobs.

Cas warns, “I won’t give up on you. No matter what.”

Dean’s voice breaks on the next whine.

“I mean it,” Cas grits, “you’re not dying on me, Winchester. You hear me? You don’t get to do that, you fucking asshole. You’re stronger than this,” he insists, and he squeezes Dean’s forearm as hard as he can, until he feels bone, until his own hand hurts. “You’re stronger than every-fucking-one I ever knew, so trust me when I say that you’ll get _through this shit_ , even if I have to carry you all the fucking way. Until you’re back with us.”

Cas adds, “We need you,” because it’s true, even though it’s shameful. Gods, is it ever true.

Dean’s head slurs the other way, faces Cas now, and he can’t speak through his pain, the thick fog of it. But Cas feels those muscles shifting, and he grabs Dean’s hand. Feels the odd-warm metal of it, the smooth surface nothing like skin. That faint buzz of it, void of blood.

But it’s Dean’s.

He squeezes it until Dean can squeeze back, faintly, before the pressure recedes entirely, and Dean’s eyes roll to their whites.

“What—is he—?”

“He’s breathing,” confirms Doc, one hand on Dean’s carotid. “Weak pulse, but—normal. I think he just…fainted.”

Cas towers over his friend. The cold sweat on his forehead runs down his temples. Eyes to Dean, to Doc, to Dean, to Doc. “Should we wake him?”

“I will monitor him. But we should let him rest, for now.” Doc hooks her patient up to herself. It’s easier now with the transplants; just a cable, no needle. She takes a seat, turns her eyes up, towards her captain. “You can let go of him now, Castiel.”

If someone had told him this morning that he would have troubles with something as minor as uncurling his hands anytime soon, he would have considered them with a strict glare. But, as it turns out, his body still finds ways to surprise him.

Doc tells him, quietly, “He is asleep,” and Cas’ sleeve wipes at the new, warm swell of water drowning his eyes.

~

Sam looks so fucking thin next to his brother. Insists though, with a tint of danger, “No, I got it,” so Cas stays just behind them.

With Dean’s arm slung over Sam’s shoulder, they take the endless steps out of the bedroom.

Sam’s legs shake by the time they’ve reached the balcony. So do Dean’s.

Cas isn’t doing anything except for sweating.

The too-warm breeze curls around the three of them. The sun stands high and bathes them, oblivious to its power, oblivious to everything and everyone, to any living soul.

Dean takes an audible, deep inhale.

Cas stands behind the brothers, but he imagines Dean—closing his eyes. Feeling the warmth on his skin.

Cas is quick to haul a chair outside for Sam to drape his brother into it. On a second thought, Cas ducks back inside to get another two.

They sit outside for a long while. And even though the silence of the past months is still with them, it has transformed—doesn’t seem suffocating any longer. A fool would say:

this is peaceful.

Cas turns to look at Dean’s profile. And while his friend is tired and his face lacks color and vigor, for once, finally, he seems to be…with them. In this very moment.

Cas puts his hand on Dean’s, mirrors Dean’s little brother’s clutch on the complementary side. Dean doesn’t stir, doesn’t look at him as he simply, silently, turns his hand to interlace their fingers.

Dean squeezes him first.

~

It’s shocking how beautiful life can be. And how cruel. And how it won’t decide on either side for too long, ever.

Cas flies his ship a little too fast. But they’ll depart in the morning, which gives him this night left with Sam. Every minute counts.

There’s nothing like coming home. Like jumping out of your ship and you see him by the window already because he knows what your ship sounds like, knows it by heart and he smiles once he spots you, and you smile back, and you’re in so much love you feel like you’re drowning if you allow yourself to really think about it.

Up the stairs and, “Hi,” and he’s in your arms, and you’re in his, and the two of you kiss.

You hold him tighter than you’d need to because there’s always that threat that maybe this will be the last time. Because you need him, and letting go isn’t an option.

Cas grins. “Let me take you out tonight,” because privacy is non-existent in these too-close quarters with Sam’s still-mostly-bedridden brother, and Sam’s face goes a little dreamier, a little more anticipating.

“But I’ve got nothing nice to wear.”

“Who says you need to wear anything?”

Sam laughs, love-full, and Cas cradles him against his heart.

“Grab a coat, it’ll be fine. You look fantastic.”

“One second,” requests Sam, and Cas steps inside so the warmth doesn’t slip from the heated apartment all the way.

Sam entrenches himself in the bathroom. At the sounds of that and the front door closing, Dean hollers, “Cap’n,” and Cas strolls towards him, into the single bedroom.

Dean gained some weight. Sits somewhat upright on his futon and smiles up at Cas as he dog-ears the book in his hands.

“How are you doing today, my friend?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Dean jokes and reciprocates Cas’ half-hug.

“What is it you’re reading?”

“Ah,” Dean says, “just some of Sammy’s stuff. Meditation and mental strength and all that crap. But I guess that’s all I can do right now. Check this out, though.”

Dean extends his arms, squeezes his new hands to fists and releases again, several times.

“Eh? Eh?”

“Good work,” praises Cas.

“Legs are getting better, too.”

Dean pushes the blanket aside to reveal the limbs in question. Cas remembers them much, much more muscular, but Dean probably does, too, and that’s not something you tell someone in physical recovery, anyway.

Cas watches dutifully as Dean tenses everything he’s got left. Shuffles his legs, stretches his feet, points his toes.

Cas—who’s heard from Sam how hard Dean is practicing to walk, all by himself, when nobody’s around—tells him, “Excellent.”

“Gimme another month and I’ll be right back with you guys.”

“We are happy to have you once you’re all recovered.”

Dean stresses, “Yeah, as I said, another month,” and Cas is beyond relieved that the bathroom door opens before he has to start arguing with this particular Winchester.

Sam announces, “Alright, let’s go,” and he smells like flowers and herbs and he put something on his eyes, brushed his hair and wraps himself in a thick woolen coat, and.

Cas, he can’t believe his luck, most of the time. Especially in times like this.

“Ah, date night,” comments Dean, flatly, far away, from the floor, and Sam grabs Cas’ hand to pull him away.

Cas promises, “We’ll try not to wake you,” and that’s all he’s got time for (and all he can _somewhat_ guarantee to adhere to—big stress on that ‘try’).

The plan is to fly out to a decent bar. Maybe even a restaurant. Low light and all that jazz. Let Sam feel special and beautiful, and appreciated.

It’s not a surprise though that as soon as they’re both in Cas’ ship and the doors have closed, Sam has climbed his lap, and Cas rapidly loses all motivation to focus on anything but that tongue in his mouth, those hands on him.

He grabs two handfuls of ass, which with Sam Winchester means: barely two handfuls.

Cas growls in love-pain, because Sam is horribly bare below his tiny little tunic.

“You will be the end of me.”

Sam smile-slurs, “Not tonight,” and lets Cas rub his too-rough fingers down where he’s always too soft, where he lets Cas do whatever he wants, always.

Sam’s got Cas’ face in both hands and kisses him stupid. Lets Cas lift him by the hips so Cas can thread his arm through those spread legs instead, the other still behind and grabbing, spreading.

Cas has been fucking this kid for the better part of the past two weeks without missions, with him just being stationed and feeling almost-married. And yet, Sam still sweet-sighs upon getting felt out, having two fingers forcing into him.

Cas notes, grinning, “You’re already wet,” and Sam moans, “Not my fault,” and he’s right, always right.

Cas crooks his fingers and rubs where it makes Sam shiver on top of him, where it makes him drowsy and loose-limbed and dirty-mouthed. Cas uses the drunkenness to shove that coat off his baby, to rip at the laced front of Sam’s tunic. Takes a hot second until Sam takes up on it, shucks out of the heavy wool and gets up on his knees to pull that sole remaining linen over his head. Gets kissed immediately after, pulled tight against a still-fully-clothed Cas who scissors his fingers mean and wide, fucks him just right for it to not be quite enough. Appetizer.

Because there’s nothing like Sam moaning, “I want it,” all fucking spoiled and shameless, or Sam whining all frustrated because Cas has to ( _has_ to) give love bites to his tits before he does anything else.

Darling-huffed, “Take it out,” those mighty hands fisted into Cas’ shirt and/or Cas’ hair instead of doing the desired job himself.

It was easy wisdom to acquire how Sam Winchester will let you fucking work for every fucking inch he’s gonna let you have of him.

There’s still one pierced nipple in Cas’ mouth as he retracts his slimy fingers, slaps his palm down on one available ass cheek hard enough for Sam to yelp—mostly in surprise, because gods does it take a lot to break this one.

Cas hauls the lightweight up, lets him cross his mile-long legs around his ass and press them together where they’re both hard while he waddles them over to the makeshift bed in the back—

just to make a last-minute turn to the right, to the folding table.

Sam grunts approvingly, right up against Cas’s teeth. His legs fly open wide and unasked for as soon as his ass gets set down on the table, and he scoots forward so Cas could fuck him immediately, easily.

Which, as Cas decides, will have to wait another minute.

He pushes at Sam’s chest so the kid drapes backwards a little flatter before Cas sinks to his knees.

He lives for Sam’s breathless, “Fuck, yeah,” for the urgency he humps at Cas’ already-in-there mouth. Grabs at Cas’ hair like he wants him to truly bury himself here.

Cas gets a good grip on the very top of Sam’s angled thighs and yanks him down just that tiny little bit. Mainly for the sudden force itself. For Sam’s little hiccup, the pulse of his fat-lipped hole.

Cas eats him out until those fingers tear at his scalp too hard, until he’s sore-tongued and his knees shiver with the need to get those fucking pants off, right fucking now.

He’s gotten good at ignoring Sam’s useless little pleads of ‘now’, ‘come on’, ‘please’. You don’t push Castiel around, no matter who you are. It’s nothing personal. Sam is a slow learner, but Cas doesn’t mind.

He gets to his feet when _he_ wants to, unlaces and shoves his pants down just enough to pull his cock and balls free. He grabs himself by the base, the other hand braced on the table. Licks deep down Sam’s heated, watery mouth while he shoves his cock up his now-drippy ass. Lets the kid groan and wrap his arms around him, slaps at that thigh when it tries to do the same. Shimmies, balls-deep, and Sam whines a bit but folds his legs until he can place those booted feet on Cas’ chest.

Knees up against his tits, he’s out of breath so quick. Has his eyes closed in bliss as Cas forces his insides open, makes him take all of him because that’s what both of them need, always, forever.

Feather-light palms on Cas’ hips as he begins to roll them; shallow but quick right away. Already drips his sweat onto Sam’s beautiful little face, loves the dirty fucking squelch of that well-treated pussy.

Sam sigh-orders, “Fuck me,” because he’s just a brat like that, and Cas scoffs and doesn’t quicken on principle, not for another moment at least.

Both hands on that table now, he can spare one to cup one of those heated cheeks, rub through that messy-again hair. Down that cordy neck—until he gets ahold of that darling ring dangling from Sam’s left nipple like the fucking beacon it was clearly meant to be.

Takes thumb and pointer and _tugs_ , and Sam’s eyes pop wild and wet at that, just like his beard-burnt mouth. So Cas gets the other tit as well, milks him nice and proper in time with his thrusts, and Sam’s face derails beautifully with it.

“Say ‘please’.”

“Please.”

“‘Please’ who?”

Sam, with his hands still dutifully out of the way and barely push-pulling at Cas at all, whines, “Please, daddy,” and Cas feels very fucking complete.

“Sweet angel,” pants Cas, gets a grip on those hips and yanks him down, hard, and Sam yelps at that like a pup, real tears now as Cas puts honest efforts into it, turns him out in the sweetest way possible.

So easy to toss those ninety pounds around. To turn him belly-down, get those feet on the floor and make him stretch out all long.

Distant little uhn, uhn, uhns and possibly lines of drool (there’s so many all over this ship at this point) and Cas has his hands on those hips like a vice, salivates at that shiny wet where his cock slops in and out, angry-red.

Sam manages a strangled, “Love you, daddy,” and Cas will come undone with him, forever.

It’s a true effort to move them towards the bed. Mainly because Sam’s knees are all jelly, and Cas’ cock refuses to leave that perfect pink for just a single second.

He gets them settled though, eventually—Sam’s cheek in the sheets and his ass in the air, all collapsed and smooth and he snorts so cute upon getting Cas’ cock back into his nearly-constant-these-days gape. Whines embarrassed when air forces out, helps spreading his ass for Cas’ viewing pleasure.

“So perfect. All mine.”

“All yours. Forever.”

Cas lays into him until there’s no space for any kind of words. Until all there is is friction and heat and the race of their hearts. Until Sam sobs, heart-breakingly, tries to grab for those hands to hold onto as his orgasm rolls through him, followed by another, and another, and Cas isn’t some teenager anymore but there’s only so much heaven-perfect pressure he can hold out on.

Cas finishes balls-deep, throbs painfully hard with it. Groans satisfied, muscles still shaking, and that won’t pass for another while.

Messy pull-out, skin on skin immediately as they crawl on top of the bed right. Just a twin so it should be crammed as hell, but Sam doesn’t take up much space at all.

Kisses and no words. Sweat and spit and perfume. Sam’s hair, everywhere.

If you would have told him three years ago that he’d start thinking those goddamn ‘maybe I should stay home just this one time’ thoughts, Castiel would have laughed in your face before he’d kicked in the same direction.

~

Dean is panting. Bends over to catch his breath, hands on his knees.

Cas considers, eventually opens his mouth, but Dean stops him right there with a wrangled, “I’m fine,” and, “Just a second. Gimme a second.”

Cas gives him his privacy, turns to face the steep way they came up instead. He lets his eyes graze the planes of dust and stone. Sweat runs into his eyes so he sweeps that away with his sleeve.

He doesn’t despise this new planet, isn’t ungrateful, no. John has his reasons to pick what he picks. But it _does_ lack soul, this one. Lacks flora and fauna. Then again, there’s always worse out there.

Cas produces his pipe from his pockets, begins to stuff it. “Y’know, my friend,” he murmurs, eyes cast down on the task at hand, “I’ve been thinking.”

Dean grunts, far-away. “Oh yeah?”

“You have to promise not to get mad.”

A sharp scoff. “You managed to knock him up yet?”

Cas’ dumb heart kicks against his ribs with intention. “I’ve been thinking about proposing, actually.”

“Ah.” A pause. “And?”

“And I wanted to talk about it with you.”

Dean frowns at him now that Cas is brave enough to meet his eyes again. “Why?”

Cas sighs. “Dean.”

“Look, I don’t care. You want my approval? Sure, whatever. Go ahead.”

“This is not my point.”

“If this is about money, man, you know I’m broke as all hell. I could ask Dad, maybe, but—”

“ _Dean_.”

A glare like a threat. Like Sam would look at you right before he’d roll his eyes so hard it hurts just watching him do it.

But nevertheless, Cas inquires, “Will you let me talk, please?”

All Dean has as a reply is a grimace. A straightening of his spine, a helpless toss of his limbs.

They’re several feet apart. Warm wind twirls around them, embraces them. This high up, the sun beats down with even less mercy.

Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe he should back out.

But Cas is tired of running. Of evading, and hiding, and losing.

He can’t do it again.

“I want to talk about it with _you_ , first thing. Because I’m aware that this is an utmost difficult situation and—you can scoff all you want, look at me when I talk to you. Dean, by the gods.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to be the good guy here—”

Dean barks, “He’s gonna say yes anyway, so what’s even the point?”

Cas’ lips purse tight to blow out the smoke. He clears his throat. “I don’t want to lose you. And neither does Sam. So, if you are against it…”

“Great! Just great. Thanks for that, really appreciate it.”

“We love you,” says Cas. “You know that.”

Dean is six feet one of wrath. Continues to consider Cas with those grim eyes as he grumbles, “You’re such a freaking joke, you know that?”

“I am not joking.”

“Oh, I know, but that’s not what I said—what I said is that YOU’RE the joke, man,” and Dean is coming towards him then, quicker than both of them thought it possible given Dean’s condition, is up in Cas’ face and boiling. Spits, “You said you were gonna _marry_ _my brother_ , Castiel, and this is what you choose to tell me five fucking seconds later? Do you even HEAR yourself?”

“Love doesn’t have to be exclusive, Dean—”

“Maybe not in your world!”

Cas’ frustration raises his volume and he knows it’s a mistake. Yells, “Will you be honest with yourself for one godforsaken second?!”

He deserves that left hook, he does.

He stumbles backwards, doesn’t go down—steadies himself.

It’s a surprise when the next blow never comes.

Both their breaths rattle through the otherwise silent air. Cas’ eyes bore through Dean, through all the thick shells of him, through all the anger and confusion and loneliness.

Not one inch does he consider ugly, or lesser.

How much Castiel wishes he had the words to convey any of that.

“I don’t care. I don’t care what you do with him,” says Dean. “Won’t make a difference. But don’t fucking drag me into this, Cas. Don’t.”

Cas’ face heats with the forming bruise. He feels sick, desperate, and he can’t say a thing.

It’s only now that he notices that he dropped his pipe.

Dean claims, “I don’t need your pity,” and continues up the gravel path leading them higher up into the mountains.

Cas follows him eventually, after picking his pipe off the ground.

~

Sam’s breathless, “Uh, oh—hi, Dad,” from right outside the bedroom door confuses Castiel, who sits up straight in Sam’s now otherwise empty bed.

He frowns.

He _did_ go to the bathroom a few minutes ago, right? Stark naked? Across the hall, where you can see right from the kitchen? The kitchen from which he can hear Sam talking now?

For the gods’ sake.

Cas pulls both shirt _and_ pair of pants on his grubby body, even combs his fingers through his hair several times before he clears his throat and exits their shared chamber.

Tries a gentle, “John,” and leans in to offer a hug.

John’s raised eyebrows say all Cas needs to know.

Cas pulls back with his smile still bravely intact. “What a nice surprise.”

“Good afternoon to you too, Castiel.”

“Ah, I told you, all my friends call me ‘Cas’…”

“Castiel, if you don’t mind, I need to talk to my son right now.”

“Of course.”

“In private.”

“Of course, yes.”

Cas has already half-ducked out the door by the time John inquires, “You don’t happen to know where my oldest might be, do you?”

“I, uh, no, sir.” Cas twirls back around, blinks. Why does he feel ten years old all over again? “I, we. Things got a little late, last night, you see, and—”

John decides, “That will be all, thank you,” and Sam and Cas exchange a short glance that cannot decide between screaming for each other’s help and begging Cas to fucking shut his mouth.

Cas pulls the door closed behind him with a traitorous amount of delight.

Parents never liked him. But there’s a certain, new shade to that discomfort if said parent is both a renowned killer and not even a full decade older than yourself.

Pipe, herbs, a couple of hits. Cas shakes his hair loose as he makes his way into this new day. He decides for a stroll into town, maybe talk someone into handing him some food, possibly a drink. Halfway through the market, a step into a puddle of gods-know-what reminds him that he left his boots in Sam’s room. Oh, well.

People have a way of finding him. Of immediately being subdued, some of them, helpless to the softness of his voice, his well-chosen vocabulary. People tell him endlessly how that will be his downfall one day—being too good for this world. Trusting too many people, the wrong kind of people; trusting at all.

This has always puzzled Castiel—why him. Why and how he is able to induce such hospitality. Why he can weasel out of everything he chooses to weasel out of, sneak into places and people and secrets he wants to be a part of.

Why out of his entire family, he is the only one left; unscathed. Left behind, and maybe that was a mistake? Did the universe just…forget?

The older he gets, the more he settles into the thought that it is what it is, whether he understands it or not. That there is no karma, and that he doesn’t have to deserve anything to have it. Or keep it. But that one’s a process. Which is okay. He feels like he’s still got plenty of time. And if not—well. Better make the most of it.

A little girl waves at him from her parent’s arms, unbeknownst to them. He waves back, all sheepishly. She reminds him of his own, his Claire, his flowerchild; they always do. He’ll have to remind himself to send a hologram later tonight, will beam over to base for Charlie or Ash to help him encrypt it. He can be back in time for dinner.

She’s gonna be three in just a couple of weeks now. Time is such a mysterious, fleeting thing.

Cas settles into a street corner, shares his pipe with the old man next to him. They watch the people and the day pass them by in each other’s silent company. Coins accumulate in front of him over time. Cas hands them over to his new friend once he gets up to head home.

If he’s lucky, John will already be gone by the time he’s made it back. But just in case, he begins to unearth the less horrible jokes from his foggy memories.

~

There are many words for Sam Winchester:

Love.

Home.

Moonchild.

“Angel.”

Sam snickers, slaps at Cas’ greedy hand. “Don’t! I’m almost done.”

Cas hums, closes his eyes again with a smile.

Cas loves Sam’s room—that it’s Sam’s, and in general. Crammed to the brim, vibrating with energy and life. Everything smells of Sam, and Sam smells of everything—herbs, spices, dust, earth, skin, Cas, metal, blood.

A thick wad of ointment announces the finishing touches. “All done,” and Cas peers down at his arm, turns to inspect the newest work while Sam stashes the poking supplies back to where they came from.

A sigil. “What is it?”

“Protection.”

“Another?” Cas grins. “Will I ever have enough of those, you figure?”

Sam doesn’t. “No such thing.”

“You take such good care of me.”

“Someone’s got to.”

Cas wraps his love in his arms, pulls him close until they’re chest to back. He kisses the back of that neck, lets his nose get tickled by long strands of hair.

Sam chuckles, knowingly. Sucks on his pipe again as he repositions his ass in Cas’ lap. Cas loves that they have to get dressed even less, now that there are enough rooms—one for just the two of them to disappear in for hours, days. Cas gladly takes upon the offered pipe, lets Sam hold it for him while he grinds them together sweet and slow.

Sam warns, “Watch out,” even though the tattoo is on Cas’ arm and Cas can’t feel much except the swelling heat between his legs, Sam’s bird-weight on him.

Hours later, Cas walks in on Dean doing the dishes. Says, “Oh,” and, “let me.”

Dean gives him an annoyed look which Cas ascribes to that usual pity issue, not the fact that Cas is wearing nothing but his shirt.

Cas hums nonexistent songs he half-remembers from too long ago, scrubs plates and pots. Hears Dean settling down behind him, at the table. Hears him hiding his groan. Dean has been working hard, lately. Lifting weights, even; _training_ , for real. They both know what Doc would have to say about that if Dean still let her check on him.

Cas turns to smile at him. He’s still so fucking numb and flying high and everything is mellow, and, well—why not say it? He’s thought about it for a while, maybe even in one of his rare sober moments.

It’s what they need, what everyone needs. And isn’t that the right thing?

“Will you join us?”

Dean’s instant withdrawal confuses him before he gasps,

“Oh,” and, “not like that. ‘Us’ as in ‘the garrison’. Tonight’s report.”

Dean mirrors, “Oh.” Visibly relieved, flustered: “Uh, sure, yeah.”

Cas’ smile widens. “Excellent.” Back to his chosen, random chore. His sleeve unrolls itself and soaks up traces of soup. He doesn’t bother to roll it back up. “They will be so happy to see you. And, obviously, you are in good shape. I’m sure we’ll find some way to reintroduce you, if that’s still what you want.”

And of course, there’s Dean’s, “Yeah,” and, “that’d be awesome, Cas. Cap’n.”

Cas turns his head again just to see Dean’s anticipating face. Tells him, “Been about time, boy,” and things feel right. They do.

A quick kiss to Sam’s asleep face before Dean and him beam to base. Cas doesn’t have to ask for proud applause for the long-awaited return. As he said: it’s time.

A weight has lifted. Finally, Dean looks like himself again—beaming, alive, with a purpose. Gives and receives hugs, doesn’t let go of Charlie for the longest time. Benny’s hand seems to linger forever until Dean finally shoulders it off.

All of it happens in the corner of Cas’ eye, of course. While he talks and listens to his crewmates, while and because he’s ‘captain’, something bigger than himself. Something without space for ego, for selfish thoughts and interests.

But Cas does grand himself a second to avert his eyes, peer over and indulge. Sees his friends—happy, safe. Laughing and hugging. Just how they’re supposed to be.

Castiel smiles, all to himself.


End file.
